


a good man during a bad time

by ficfucker



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: (maybe?) - Freeform, (to the best of my ability with a tiny bit of tweaking), Canon Compliant, First Kiss, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Multi, Other, Praise Kink, Premature Ejaculation, gender non specific reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker
Summary: you move into an apartment in gotham & meet a clown
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Reader, Arthur Fleck/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 105





	a good man during a bad time

**Author's Note:**

> listen ive been a clown fucker for years this comes as no surprise

An apartment opens up and you take it because it’s cheap and you’ve lived and housed poor your whole life and the economic state of Gothman surely isn’t lending anyone a hand in changing that. It’s a shithole, but you’re secure, four walls, a roof, a door that locks at least half the time, an elevator you’re sure you’ll get stuck in twice, if not more. You’re not happy, but you’re at terms with it. You’re grateful. You can afford it without having to ask for roommates to help cover the cost and that pleases you most of all. 

* * *

  
  


Your neighbor, who you’ve seen a handful of times now after a week in your new place, is silent whenever you spot him checking his mail, when he’s there with you in the elevator, sucking the butt of a cigarette and looking down at his shoes. He hasn’t said a single word to you yet, but you can feel his eyes tracing you as you go, a lingering look before you both disappear into the privacy of your own apartments. 

When he’s in the apartment next to you, in his own little space, however, his demeanor changes. Every night, he cranks up the Murray Franklin show, laughs along with the studio audience, and even keeps it up after they’ve stopped. When it’s not television, your neighbor has music on: Cream, The Youngbloods, often a long stretch of Frank Sinatra. You figure he dances along, though you can only imagine it through the walls of the building: this meek, shy little guy shuffling and swaying in his apartment. It’s amusing. 

You don’t complain. It’s certainly the least disturbing part of living in the complex and you know going to the landlord to tell a guy to pipe down on his music would get you a laugh in the face. Who gives a shit? Everyone needs their pick me ups and the guy’s not hurting anyone. 

His taste isn’t bad. 

When the music comes on, muffled through the walls, you hum along with it. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s late and you’re thinking about making something quick and easy as soon as you’re in your apartment and the doors of the elevator are squeaking shut, when you see your neighbor rushing towards it, so you bump your shoe onto the track, hold it open. 

“Thanks,” he breathes, slipping in past you. 

“No sweat,” you mumble. 

His hair is wet from the rain outside and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his putrid, not quite yellow, not quite tan jacket. 

You figure now’s your chance to get to know him, at least minorly, so you slip out your pack and tap a cigarette out, offer it to him as the elevator starts inching up. 

“Oh. Uh, thanks.” 

“Mhm.” You take your own, place it between your lips, switch the pack out for your lighter. You spark up then tilt the lighter questioningly at him. He leans in and you’re both lit, his ghoulish face glowing orange when he leans down to meet the flame. 

You take a drag, ask, “You been living here a while?” 

“Oh. Yeah. My mother and I… a few years now. Well, more than a few actually.” He sucks on his cigarette and shifts awkwardly, casts a sideways glance at you. “You, uh, new here? I don’t think I’ve seen you around much…” 

“Yeah. Been here a week. Live right next to you, I think.” 

He nods. 

There’s a beat of silence. “You got a name?” you ask.

“Arthur uh, Fleck,” he answers. He snakes his other hand out of his pocket, extends it for a shake, and you accept it. 

The doors open on your shared floor and you say, “Well, it was nice to finally meet you, Arthur,” as you step out. 

He goes down the hall with you, smiles shyly in a kicked puppy kind of way when he gets to door, starts fishing around for his keys. “It was… nice to meet you, too…,” he says softly, and then he steps into his apartment and the door closes quickly. 

* * *

  
  


It’s a couple of days before you and Arthur cross paths again. You go about your business, working your militant shifts as a dishwasher in one of Gotham’s older pizza joints, get home, and decompress without much interest in anything else. Arthur does his thing, too. 

You meet again in the elevator, this time in the morning. You’re dressed in your black apron and ratty baseball cap, your worn sneakers, all of which probably smell of stale bleach and dirty dish water that you’ve gone nose blind to months ago. Usually, you get on the train dressed and ready so you don’t have to change at work, don’t get any looks because of it, but for whatever reason, you feel off. The notion embarrasses you a moment, even in the company of someone as disheveled as Arthur, and you wonder where the thought comes from. 

“Morning, Arthur,” you greet, stepping in. 

He smiles his returned greeting and presses the button to the first floor with his middle finger. Arthur taps his foot then shifts, tenses his shoulders a little, mouth working noticeably like he wants to say something. He finally does, “You uh, seen the shit on the news? About the-the murders and the clown mask?” 

You nod. You have. It’s been plastered everywhere, on every news channel you flick to, talked about by people in the kitchen, droning on through the radio like it’s the first murder Gotham has ever seen. 

“Yeah. Causing a big stir, huh?” 

“They worked for Wayne,” Arthur says quickly, like he’s excited, then clamps down on himself and adds, with less fever, “It’s supposed to be  _ symbolic _ or something. Murray Franklin says it’s a message to the rich.” 

You snort. “Good. Maybe we’ll all revolt and I can get more than what I earn an hour.” 

Arthur giggles, a low little chuckle, and then he’s wheezing, grabbing onto his own throat like he’s choking on a chicken bone with every wave of laughter as it crests. It looks like he’s having an asthma attack, the way his eyes bug and get nervous, drop away from you, shaking his head, clearly not wanting to be doing this here and now. 

“I’ve got-,” he gasps. He titters and air wheezes tightly from his throat. “I have a- Got this-is  _ condition _ .” His shoulders bounce humorlessly and he fumbles trying to find his coat pocket, produces a laminated card. 

You read it through, flip it over twice. “It’s alright, Arthur,” you soothe, unsure of what to do in this situation. All you know is he looks dreadfully embarrassed, trapped in this body that’s acting out on him. “You don’t have to suppress it. Just let it come out.” 

The doors of the elevator open and there are people waiting there to get in, their mouths flat, unamused lines, so you smile smally and take Arthur by the shoulder, lead him out into the lobby. Arthur’s still laughing and giggling, but it sounds less restrained now. 

“Where are you headed, Art?” you ask, dropping the nickname because Arthur seems too formal for the moment. “Work? The subway?” 

He nods frantically, the corners of his mouth twitching down tightly, his eyes sad, but not as panicked as they first had been, and you keep leading him. “Okay. Okay, well, I’m taking the subway, too. Let’s take it together.” 

Arthur doesn’t argue and you notice his laughter isn’t as deep or loud now, just slippery, little giggles that escape every once in a while, like hiccups. Seems like a good sign, he’s winding down. You get him onto the street and start heading in the right direction, your hand sliding to his elbow like a mother herding a child. You keep walking him even when the laughter has died down completely. You keep holding him by the elbow on the train, like if you let go, he’ll have a fit again. 

Neither of you say a word about it, and when it’s your stop, you give him a firm, reassuring squeeze, then break away and head out the doors with all the others exiting. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


You’re sitting on the edge of your bed in a towel, television turned down to a hum, considering if you even have the energy to get up and put on pajamas before calling it a night when there’s a knock at the door. 

“One second!” you call out. You pad into the main room and check the peephole. 

It’s Arthur. 

You hesitate, being in only a towel, but figure he’s harmless enough, and open the door. “What’s up, Art?” 

“I…” He stops right there, his eyes dropping down to what skin you’ve got exposed bare and you can see his cheeks warm red. “I was wondering… if you’d like to come over to have dinner with my mother and I.” He’s got little smears of white face paint around his collar. 

“Oh…!” You’re dead tired from being on your feet all day, but you can swing a little longer just to make Arthur happy. “Sure thing, just give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll be right over.” 

He nods and shuffles a step back, looks side to side awkwardly like he’s not sure what comes next, then says, “Okay… Okay, good. Right next door.” 

You smile. “I know, Art. Be just a minute, alright?” You close the door slowly, with him still standing there, and head back to your bedroom, get dressed in a plain t-shirt and jeans, pull on some half-decent shoes. 

Arthur isn’t there when you step back out into the hall, so you go to his door and knock. He answers quickly, looks giddy and embarrassed and ushers you in, saying, “Uh, I didn’t ask, but I hope you like Chinese food.” 

You say you do, a little absently because you’re thinking about how out of all the take-out options there are, Chinese is on the more expensive side and from the looks of the apartment, you wouldn’t figure Arthur has that kind of money to shell out on dinner. He leads you into the small living room, where a frail, old woman sits with a plate of fried rice out in front of her, her pale eyes softening when she spots you. 

“Mom,” Arthur says, almost hushed. “This is our new neighbor I had been telling you about.” 

You go over and shake her hand, her face warmed with delight, and she says, “Arthur’s told me about how  _ nicely _ you’ve been treating him lately.” 

It’s a little embarrassing, making you feel like you’re in middle school and being introduced to your date’s parents, but they’re both sincere, your anxiousness dies down quickly. “Oh. Well, you’ve raised a very polite son, Mrs. Fleck,” you tell her. 

It’s Arthur’s turn to look flustered and he redirects this by saying you can help yourself to whatever you’d like, waves a hand at the little, white paper boxes set out on the coffee table. “Let me get you a plate,” he adds and he rushes to the kitchen to find one. 

You sit down on the couch, see that the Murray Franklin show is on. You notice the butt of a small handgun sticking out from under the lip of the skirt of the couch and it jolts you, but you try not to show it. 

_ Arthur isn’t a dangerous man _ , you remind yourself, though you have no grounds to base it on. 

Arthur comes back in with a plate, hands it to you, offers you a fork, and you take both, thank him with a smile. 

You all sit and eat and Arthur gets up to his laughter pretty quick, elbow bumping into you a couple of times when he really starts going. You don’t mind. You’re glad Arthur’s happy and quietly in your heart, you’re happy, too.

* * *

  
  


“Thank you for having me over, Artie. That was really very sweet,” you say, getting out your keys to unlock your door. 

Arthur smiles genuinely, rolls on the balls of his feet. “Thank you for coming over,” he says. “We don’t really have company often.”

“Well, maybe I can change that.”

Arthur breathes out a laugh, says, “I’d… like that…” 

You turn back to look at him as you twist the knob, then say, “Oh! Wait! I have your- the card you gave me.”

“Oh? Oh, uh, you don’t have to give that back. I have a bunch more printed…” 

“Just wait a sec,” you insist. “I have it right on the counter.” You step inside, find the card exactly where you’d left it when you found it inside the pocket of your work apron, and return to the doorway, hold it out for Arthur. 

He has to move a step forward to take it. He turns it over and over between his fingers, has that look on his face when he wants to say something, but isn’t there yet. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For… everything.” 

You smile and sweep your eyes over him, watching as he flips the little rectangular card between his fingers, fidgeting. You reach out and put your hand over both of his, stop him from stirring, and he does, looks up slowly to make eye contact with you, and something feels right about it in the moment, so you inch forward and then you’re kissing. 

Arthur is stiff at first, unsure, but he loosens up after a moment, leans into you and kisses back with little grace. You don’t mind. His effort is endearing and you’re not a master of romance, either. Your smile breaks things apart and when you back away, Arthur looks downright ruffled, his face deeply red, his mouth curled into a nervous grin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs again. He turns his hand around to cup yours, gives you a squeeze as you did to him on the train. 

“Goodnight, Arthur,” he whispers. 

“Goodnight…” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Riots continue in the streets, dangerous enough that your boss decides it’s not worth having the restaurant open, so you’ve technically got the day off for the first time in a while. You stay in with your records on and read, don’t even bother to change out of your pajamas or fuss with your hair. 

Oddly enough, the Fleck apartment is quiet. You don’t hear Arthur stirring around to any music, the television isn’t playing. Even the shuffling steps of Mrs. Fleck are absent. 

You figure maybe he’s gone downtown to scope out comedy joints, like he’d been mentioning to you earlier that week. He’d lost his job as a clown and seemed to want to persue indepent standup fiercely. You encouraged him, told him to invite you if he landed a slot. 

That doesn’t explain why Mrs. Fleck can’t be heard, but you don’t nose around. 

* * *

  
  


You sit close enough to Arthur at the hospital that your thighs touch. You put your hand over his gently while he sits there, stares blankly down at the tile floor, a cigarette sagging between his lips. He hasn’t said much since you’ve arrived, but you’d immediately been pulled in a frantic hug, his arms going around you like it was the end of the world, and to him, it probably was. 

He’d called from a pay phone. You hadn’t asked how he’d gotten your number and in the frenzy of him trying to explain the situation, his voice scared and tight, you hadn’t even thought about it. 

“She’s a good woman,” he mumbles after a long period of silence. “She doesn’t deserve this.” 

“I know, Arthur… The doctor’s are doing all they can to help…” 

He makes a low sound and drops his cigarette onto the tile, stubs it out with his shoe. The butt only smolders for a second before not even one wisp more of smoke curls from it. “Doctors,” he mutters. “What the hell have  _ they _ done good lately? Had their budgets cut? Not  _ listened _ to me?” He shakes his head, scoffs. 

You pat his hand. There’s not much else to say, no answer to give. 

Arthur exhales sharply out of his nose and something inside of him deflates. 

“Could you see if you could get me another coffee?” he asks gently a few moments later. 

* * *

  
  


You two take the train home together, get into the elevator without saying anything. Arthur's been quiet and distraught all day, his mouth pinched, his leg bouncing with nerves. Despite all the stress and anxiety, though, he’s only suffered one laughing fit and even that one was mild, winding down fast while you rubbed his back through it. 

“Things will turn out alright, Artie,” you say softly when you reach your floor, the doors crinking open with obvious effort. 

He hums and you start down the hall together, side by side, and when he gets to his door, you stop and stand with him while he pulls out his keys. You look at him sadly, the tired set in his shoulders, the way his eyes are glassy. 

“You sure you’re gonna be okay alone for the night?” you ask, your tone a shade hushed. 

He nods, then pauses, starts shaking his head. A flat laugh escapes him and he says, "You know, I can't even  _ remember _ the last time I had the apartment to myself…You could… uh. If you don't mind, would you want to come in?” The door is ajar. 

“Sure, Art. I don’t mind.” 

Arthur opens the door fully and you both step in, him latching the door behind you. “There’s… leftovers,” he adds. 

So you sit on the couch and Arthur warms you some wings and noodles in the microwave while you fiddle with the television, find a channel that’s playing a Murray Show rerun from before the protests, and stick with that. Arthur joins you a minute later, passes you your plate. He smokes a fresh cigarette, laughs around the filter dryly before starting in on his own food. 

“I probably won’t have work for a while,” you pipe up. “With the riots and all. The pizza shop’s been closed, for safety reasons. I could… visit the hospital with you. Or just come by during the day if you need the company.” 

Arthur smiles sadly and sets his empty plate on the coffee table. “You know, I’d really appreciate that… Both offers.” 

“I’m not the best cook in the world,” you say with a joking smile, “but I can manage the basics, I think.” 

Arthur smiles back and it’s genuine this time. 

You pat his knee, get up, and take the plates into the kitchen to wash them. It’s instinctual: to do the dishes right then and there, not just from your work, but also this drive to take care of Arthur in some way, any way that presents itself. It really started with offering him a cigarette. Maybe that wasn’t good for him in a physical sense, but it was a kindness. Helping subdue his laughing fit kind of cemented your drive, to show Arthur the tender hand of humanity. 

You don’t hear him walk over, but you can feel his eyes on you and when you turn around there he is: standing some feet away, watching you with tired, curious eyes. 

“C’mere…” 

Arthur obeys, walks over to you with a hesitant gait in his step, and when he’s close enough, you pull him close, shut your eyes as soon as his head falls as a heavy, human weight to rest on your chest. He inhales deeply, some tenseness unwinding out of him. You rub up and down his back, press your body seamlessly into his.

He looks up and you both make brief eye contact before you’re kissing, Arthur’s hands coming up to cup your face. He’s got you boxed against the edge of the sink. His kisses are more exploratory than last time, a shade of confidence to his movements, the way he breaks apart to angle your mouths differently, reconnect them with a soft sigh. 

“You’re a good man, Art,” you breathe, his lips near enough that you’re almost speaking into him. 

He shudders at the praise and you assume that’s a good reaction, but even to you, it’s a little odd to say during a moment that’s edging on intimate, so who knows? He rubs his thumb along your bottom lip. You twirl a finger around one of his curls. 

“And… you deserve nice things,” you press, testing the waters. “People who are kind to you…” 

Arthur groans, drops his head back to your chest, his breathing coming out harder than it was a minute ago. His face is red all the way to his ears. “Nice things?” he asks like he’s prompting it. 

“Mhm.” You stroke his hair. “Love and understanding and touch.” 

Arthur makes another noise, this time much closer to a whimper, and you feel his erection poke up against your lower stomach, straining against the tight material of his khakis. “Oh,” he gasps. His hands are still cupping either side of your face, almost now in prayer with the way his body is bent down around you.

“We can stop if…” 

“No…!” Arthur pants, but when he looks up at you, his eyes are big and nervous, a sickly green in the low light of the one kitchen light. He seems surprised by the fierce desire to his own voice, and he adds, meekly, with genuine honesty, “Unless you want to. We can stop…” 

You smile softly, kiss his forehead. “No, I want to continue.” It seems like a lot for him, if the tremor just under his skin is a tell to anything, that kicked puppy look spilling out of him all over again. 

* * *

  
  


You end up in Arthur’s mother’s room, almost distracted by the floral wallpaper and the mental image of Mrs. Fleck in her hospital bed, unmoving and pale. It makes you wonder if you’re sleeping with Arthur out of pity, considering you’ve known him less than a month, how fast this sexual aspect has arisen. 

People deal with grief in strange ways, you suppose. 

You’re both seated on the edge of the bed and Arthur has his hand placed innocently to your thigh. You turn your head and receive his kiss, put your hand to his shoulder, tug him an inch closer. He whimpers again, softly, right into your mouth, and you can’t help it, you arch into Arthur’s front, tail your hand down from his shoulder to his arm. 

You inch back enough to start unbuttoning his shirt and he kisses hotly at your throat, his mouth strangely cool against your heated skin. You run a hand up under the folds of his shirt, now open in two flaps, and you can feel his ribs bumping out, the plate of his sternum. His breathing catches, puffs an exhale on your neck.

“Continue?” you ask in a whisper. 

“Y-Yes…,” he chirps. Arthur keeps at your neck, like he’s trying to devour you, and with the angle your head is at, you can see his erection isn’t flagging. It makes something drop in your stomach, the sight of him pressing tightly to the front of his pants. 

You trail your fingers down to his fly, toy with it a minute before actually starting to unzip. His hips tremble, nearly raise off the mattress. 

“Uh.” He slinks meekly back, his eyes quick, and he says, “Maybe we should… lay down now.” 

You oblige: flop back on the bed in such a way it gets him smiling and an oily giggle slips out of him, chokes into a soft cough. Arthur gets over top of you, his pants undone and caught around his hips, and he still seem nervous. He hesitates a moment, his hand on your knee, then lays in the bed beside you. 

You loll your head over, press a kiss tenderly to his mouth. He works on his pants, starting to shuck them off, so you pull yours off, too, drop them over the side of the bed onto the floor. You’re not particularly shy about nudity and your underwear comes off, too, but there’s a moment of fluttering in your chest, lying there, have dressed. 

Arthur is still working on kicking his white briefs the rest of the way off when his eye strays, catches you there. “Oh…,” he whispers. His face is redder than you’ve ever seen and you blush some in return, feel your cheeks start to warm pink. 

To take attention away from yourself, you roll completely onto your side and reach out, take Arthur in your hand. His hips buck once, overly eager, and a noise nets in the back of his throat, shocked and pleasured. You give him a slow, curious tug, and when he whines, you murmur, “That’s a good boy, Art.” 

A giggle. His eyes are screwed shut, his hands balling the sheets. “I’ve never-I’ve never…”

“It’s okay,” you soothe. “That’s okay, Arthur.” 

Another giggle and you hear Arthur gulp. He lifts his hips off the bed then turns over so you’re nose to nose. 

“You’re good, you’re doing good,” you hum. He’s leaking into your hand, hot and heavy, and you add, “C’mere…,” and pat your chest with your other hand. 

Arthur hesitant then starts to wriggle up over you. You drop your hand away. His erection drags over your bare thigh and he moans, ruts against you so he pokes up between your legs, and then he’s seized tight and a warmth spills, pools. “Oh…!” he moans and he bows his head down, drives his hips over and over until the orgasm is rung out of him. 

You blink. You really weren’t expecting that. 

It seems Arthur wasn’t either, because as soon as his mind comes back to him, he glances up at you and his eyebrows are knit, bottom lip jutting out. “I didn’t mean… Here, I can uh… I’ll help you…” 

You comb a hand through his hair, rest your palm to his cheek. “It’s okay, Art. Really.” 

A nervous giggle ghosts from his mouth. He looks downright ashamed. 

“I promise, Arthur, it’s fine. It happens!” You smile warmly, pull him further up so you’re cuddled together at a less awkward angle. 

Chittering laughter comes from him, incredibly forced, and he says, “That’s life…!” as an attempt at a joke. 

“That’s life,” you repeat. “It’s late anyway. We should get some rest.”

* * *

  
  


You lie in the dark of the bedroom, Arthur sleeping ratherly soundly tucked into your side, his arm slung over you in an unconscious act of possessiveness. You’d gotten up and wiped up in the bathroom with a wet handcloth, come back to an embarrassed all over again Arthur who continued his apology. You’d told him again it was fine and it was, you weren’t mad or disappointed. First times were often messy. With Mrs. Fleck out of the house for the time being, you assume there will be more firsts, trial and error in all of them. 

In the dark, you can see Arthur’s orange prescription bottles on the vanity, some turned on their sides, empty or gushing out little pills, the plastic-looking like a burnt brown with the low lighting. You can see that gun again, too, also on the vanity, the sleek little piece you’d noticed tucked under the couch. Next to that are some brushes, what looks like a pallet of face paints, but it’s hard to tell with the shadowing. 

You look over at Arthur, rest your hand to the front of his bare chest. You can feel his heartbeat. His face looks so calm and sweet, not pinched with sadness or unwanted laughter. 

You wonder how long it will last. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thnk u for reading! kudos + comments appreciated 
> 
> find me on tmblr @ficfucker


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